


Irresistible Forces

by nanaa127



Series: Inseparable origins [1]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Gen, Huguenots making trouble, Post-Savoy, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-19
Updated: 2019-04-22
Packaged: 2020-01-16 06:51:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 21,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18516166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nanaa127/pseuds/nanaa127
Summary: An unexpected attack and the weight of recent tragedies strain a new friendship between Athos and Aramis.





	1. Chapter 1

_October 1625_

Athos had never considered himself to be a man in love with nature. He could tolerate a day spent riding through the countryside well enough, but despite the unusually warm weather France was currently enjoying, his opinion of nature, and specifically the forest they were currently struggling through, was very unflattering. As was his opinion of his companion's current mental state.

"Are you quite mad?"

"Well of course," came the flippant, breathless reply. "Now Athos, I know we haven't been friends for very long, but I thought that would be clear to you by now." 

Although he couldn't see the marksman running behind him, Athos guessed that Aramis' face would be lit by a wild grin. The former comte frowned at the use of the word "friends". He still wasn't quite certain how he managed to get saddled with this reckless, somewhat strange young man, but at the moment, figuring that out was very low on his list of immediate priorities. He slapped another branch out of the way before it could meet his face.

"No, absolutely not. There are at least five of them and only two of us. And, if I must remind you, you are wounded," Athos hissed.

"Yes I noticed, thank you." Aramis lightly pressed a hand against his left thigh as he loped on. "Five against two aren't impossible odds. I wouldn't even say that they're terrible. Not great, perhaps, but not terrible."

"I said at _least_ five. That means there could be more of them. So no, we will not be making some misguided stand." Did the man have some sort of death wish?

Aramis sighed. "I do so hate running," he muttered with mock dismay.

Despite the young Musketeer's inappropriately cheerful attitude, Athos could hear the underlying fatigue that dragged at his voice. Their night had been rudely interrupted when a group of armed strangers had crept into their camp. Aramis, ever alert to danger, had immediately awoken and sprung up from his sleeping spot with both loaded pistols already in hand. Athos - who was supposed to have been on watch - had been less ready, having indulged past his own very high threshold while staring blankly into the dying embers, oblivious to his surroundings. With his head pounding and thoughts swimming through syrup, he'd been slow to react and as a result, even his impeccable skill as a swordsman couldn't save him from being overrun. The men that came after him were oddly well-trained for what he had assumed were common bandits.

Aramis had quickly dispatched two of the men with customary efficiency and then pulled his own rapier out to engage the rest. In the darkness and confusion it had been difficult to tell how many invaders were left - five? six? Three of them had come at Athos at once, and what would have normally been a manageable fight suddenly seemed much less so as he forced his clumsy brain to focus. As he parried one attack and circled his blade down and around to disarm his opponent, another man had snuck up behind him and kicked him in the back of his knee. With the world spinning sickeningly around him, Athos was knocked off balance. Although he managed not to go to ground, he still stumbled a few steps and struggled to get his sword in position fast enough to ward off the three blades that flashed at him simultaneously. _Too slow_ , he mused detachedly. The thought didn't bother him much.

It turned out that his anticipation of death had been premature, as Aramis had seen him stagger and had charged across the clearing, slamming into one of Athos' attackers before their weapons could make lethal contact. He swung his rapier in a wide arc, took one attacker out with an elegant but vicious blow, and then immediately put his back to Athos' to help the inebriated Musketeer with the remaining two. It was in the dying moments of the fight that one of the bandits had made one last desperate jab at Athos. His reflexes were still a fraction sluggish, and it had been clear that Athos would not be able to parry in time. Once again, Aramis had intervened and had ended up catching the enemy's blade for his trouble. The younger Musketeer's grunt of pain as the sword plunged into his leg finally shocked Athos into some semblance of clarity, and he whipped his weapon around to put down the final man. Once the immediate threats had been dealt with, Aramis had hobbled back to support himself against a nearby tree with a stifled groan, his hands pressed tightly around his profusely bleeding thigh. Athos spun around and stared down at the half-Spaniard in alarm, his chest heaving with adrenaline.

"What on earth were you thinking?" He demanded as he knelt in front of Aramis and pulled at the marksman's wrists.

"I was thinking that I preferred not to see you skewered." Aramis winced as he steadily increased pressure on the deep stab wound. His knuckles turned white with effort.

"But you thought it acceptable to find yourself in that same condition? You should have just let it be!" An unexpected surge of cold, irrational anger clawed at him. He hadn't asked for this.

The marksman's brow furrowed in confusion, his breath coming in short pants. "Athos..."

"Forget it." Athos cut the younger man off. He tamped his anger back down and ignored the furious pressure rising in his skull. Now was not the time. He turned his attention back to the wound, which was still pulsing crimson streaks through the other Aramis' fingers. "Aramis, let me see," he insisted when the other resisted Athos' attempts to pull his hands away.

"Leave it. It's fine," Aramis responded, shrugging Athos off. The tension in his voice belied his words.

Athos raised a disbelieving eyebrow at him. "You may want to rethink your definition of the word 'fine'." He eyed the dark stain that was rapidly spreading across Aramis' breeches. "This is most certainly not 'fine'."

"It's...not that bad," Aramis amended somewhat raggedly, his eyes squeezed shut as he wrestled the pain into submission. "I've had worse."

"If that was meant to be comforting, let me assure you that it was not," Athos muttered. "Do you have your sewing kit?" It was something the marksman now carried with him at all times, a new habit he'd apparently picked up in the past couple of months.

"I do. It's fortunate I decided to keep it with me as the rest of our supplies seem to have run off with our horses." A tinge of worry seeped through Aramis' voice, and Athos' eyes narrowed as he turned to glance at the spot where they had tied up their mounts for the night. The two animals were clearly missing, along with the majority of their belongings. His mouth tightened with displeasure.

"We shouldn't linger here," Aramis' words brought Athos' attention back to his companion. "Two of our attackers retreated when they realized we weren't going to be easy prey." The thin smile that stretched across Aramis' bloodless lips was unnerving.

Athos frowned. "They may have gone for reinforcements."

"Yes. I can do this quickly if you'd be so kind as to bring me my needles," Aramis replied. "You wouldn't happen have any of that wine left, would you?"

Shame and self-recrimination swept over Athos in a familiar, hateful flood. "No, I'm afraid not."

The wounded marksman huffed out a small laugh. "That's impressive, even for you," he said, winking at Athos. "Well, I suppose I will have to make do with water. Could you please bring my waterskin over here as well?"

Athos complied and he had helped Aramis flush out the injury, which had punctured the muscle almost halfway between his knee and hip. In order to be done quickly, the marksman had simply taken his dagger and widened the bloody tear in his breeches to expose the hole in his leg. The younger Musketeer had then enlisted Athos' aid in keeping the edges of the wound closed while he set to work with his needle and thread. Although Athos was no stranger to committing gruesome acts, he found Aramis' steadiness as he sewed his own flesh together to be both admirable and a bit gag-inducing. The stitches were hastily placed in their rush to be done quickly, but when Athos released the wound it no longer leaked.

"Not my finest work, which is a shame considering it's my own leg," Aramis said with a sigh. "But it will have to do." He unwound the blue sash tied at his waist and wrapped it tightly around his stitched thigh. Athos watched as he did so, his head pounding steadily in the aftermath of too much drink. Aramis looked up to catch him staring, and Athos didn't know what the younger man saw in his face but it made the marksman's gaze soften.

"Athos, this isn't your fault."

The former comte turned away from him without reply.

They had finished their field surgery not a moment too soon, as the beat of hooves on packed dirt alerted them to approaching riders. Athos tilted his head away from the main trail, and Aramis nodded. They would move deeper into the woods in the hopes of losing their pursuers and try to circle back around to the path they had been taking. Without their horses, they'd be forced to travel on foot. As he watched Aramis gingerly test his leg to see if it would bear his weight, Athos felt a leaden weight settle into pit of his stomach which had nothing to do with the immense amount of alcohol he'd consumed just hours earlier. Although Aramis seemed oddly carefree for a man who had just been stabbed, Athos had serious doubts as to how far the other Musketeer would be able to go with only one good leg.

A loud thud and strangled curse pulled Athos out of his reminiscence. He immediately stopped and turned, his rapier halfway out of its sheath, only to find Aramis on the ground pushing himself up to a sitting position. He'd been so lost in his thoughts he hadn't noticed the younger man falling further and further behind.

"Aramis?"

"It's nothing. I tripped over a root."

While it was a plausible explanation, Athos sincerely doubted that was what had actually happened. Crouching down to check on the marksman, he noted with concern that Aramis had gone from mildly pale to completely ashen. Athos assumed that it was a trick of the weak moonlight, but between the severe pallor and the dark shadows that hid Aramis' eyes, the man looked more like a ghost than a living being. He glanced down at the marksman's leg and his brow furrowed.

"When did this start bleeding again?" Athos demanded, his eyes narrowed. The clean blue cloth that Aramis had tied around his leg earlier was now a dark purple, as it had become completely saturated with blood despite the stitches that they had put in.

"I'm not sure," Aramis lied. "I'll be fine. Let's keep going."

A toxic mix of guilt and fury threatened to overwhelm Athos as he stared at the other Musketeer. Why on earth had he kept silent about this? It simply defied all common sense. Close up, he could now see the fine tremors shook the younger man. They had been rushing through the woods for what felt like hours now, and Athos had no idea how long the Aramis had been losing precious blood. Considering his current state, it was clear that it had been much too long. At this point, running was no longer looking like a feasible option.

"No. You can't go any further."

"Yes I can, and I will," Aramis snapped.

Athos shook his head. While he didn't doubt Aramis' courage or willpower, the former comte refused to let the man suffer a minute longer than he already had because of Athos' own mistakes. While he usually drank in an effort to drown out his too recent past, tonight it seemed that his newfound habit was only going to create new demons. His poor judgment had already led to one complete catastrophe too recently in his life, and Athos was determined to never let it happen again. Aramis would not be able to run at the pace they'd been going for much longer, and if the men chasing them caught up to them, Athos refused to risk the other Musketeer being killed because of his weakened state.

"No," Athos repeated. "We split up. I will draw them away from you. Try to make it back to the main road."

"That's a terrible idea," Aramis whispered fiercely. "It's better to stay together."

"You are not going to be able to keep pace, Aramis. You've already lost too much blood. Head for Paris if you can."

"No Athos, please. I will keep up." Aramis pressed closer to the swordsman, his hand reaching up to grasp Athos' shoulder. His eyes were wide and anxious. "If we must, we can stand together and fight. Do not doubt me, Athos. I can do this."

"I don't doubt you," Athos said flatly,"But every man has his limits. I think it is clear you have reached yours."

"You know nothing of my limits," Aramis spat vehemently, his grip tightening almost painfully. "Please, Athos. Don't do this to me. Don't leave me behind." There was a strong pleading note beneath the heated words that made Athos pause. He briefly wondered if this was the spectre of Savoy, rising up to haunt the marksman on this dark night in the woods. Athos only vaguely knew about Aramis' involvement in the disaster that decimated the Musketeer regiment less than a year ago, if only because it was nearly impossible to avoid the chatter surrounding it. Aramis had never spoken of it to him, though, and he hadn't asked.

"I'm not leaving you behind," Athos said, his voice thawing to a gentler tone. _I am merely ensuring that you do not meet your end here because of my own stupidity_.

"Good," Aramis sighed with relief as he visibly relaxed. "Good. Shall we go?" He shifted, ready to rise.

Athos knew that Aramis had the reputation of being a tenacious man, but Athos was nobility. Although he abhorred the trappings of the life he left behind, the natural authority that developed over a lifetime of having his every wish catered to gave him the advantage. He would get his way, especially if meant increasing Aramis' chances of survival. Although it was still quite dark, Athos guessed that dawn would be upon them soon. If Aramis could make it to the road without being harassed by their pursuers, then he could hope that some travelers would pass by and be able to help the wounded man back to Paris.

In a rare gesture, Athos reached out and clasped the back of Aramis' neck, bringing their heads together. A look of surprise flashed across the his face, and then Aramis leaned into Athos' touch without comment. From the moment Athos had stepped into the garrison a couple of months ago, the younger Musketeer had repeatedly extended a warm hand of friendship only to have it repeatedly rebuffed. The former comte had been immensely annoyed by Aramis' efforts as he'd had no intention of engaging with any of his fellow Musketeers. Athos simply wanted to drink, do his duty, and drink some more. But Aramis was irritatingly persistent and Athos had eventually found it easier to give in than to keep resisting. Between the marksman and Porthos, the large, dark Musketeer that constantly watched over Aramis with a vigilant eye, he found himself slowly drawn into their camaraderie against his own will. Athos didn't quite understand what it was about him that Aramis had considered worthy of attention, but he would not let this man die because he'd offered his friendship to the wrong person.

"Aramis," Athos whispered. "Forgive me."

"What?" Aramis sounded confused for a split second before his eyes widened and a look of betrayal flashed across his face. "Athos, no - "

The young Musketeer didn't have a chance to finish as the former comte struck him fast and hard across the head, knocking him out instantly. Athos caught Aramis as he slumped bonelessly towards the ground.

"You may disagree, but this is the best way," Athos murmured at the unconscious man as he dragged him towards a thick clump of undergrowth. He rolled Aramis underneath and dragged a pile of dead branches in front, sweeping up their tracks. "I'm sorry."

Satisfied that Aramis was hidden as well as he could be, Athos turned and started to run back in the direction they'd come from. If Aramis was going to have any chance at all, Athos would have to lead their pursuers away from his hiding spot or, should it come down to it, eliminate as many of them as he could in a final stand.

Despite the fact that he knew the bandits - or whatever they might be - were chasing after them, Athos wasn't exactly quite sure _where_ they were. As it turned out, he didn't have to put much effort into locating them, as they were startlingly closer than he would have thought.

A pistol shot cracked in the darkness, and Athos flinched as tree bark and splinters sprayed out from a tree just to his right. Shards of wood peppered his face; just a few inches to the left and he would have been dead. Athos pulled out his own unused pistol as he turned towards the direction the shot had come from. Now that he knew where to look, he could see three figures crouched in the shadows. He took hasty aim and fired, but his own shot also missed it's target. _It's a good thing Aramis wasn't here to see that_ , Athos thought distractedly.

"'Ey! We found one!" One of the men shouted. Now that they had come face to face, it seemed that the bandits no longer saw the need for silence and stealth. "On me!"

Faced with three men and the promise of more, Athos did the only sensible thing - he turned and ran. Deliberately angling himself away from spot where he'd left Aramis, Athos stumbled along in the dark, his heart pounding and his breath coming fast and shallow. He was acutely aware of how close his pursuers were and could hear them shouting behind him as they started to gain on him. He pushed himself harder, hoping that he wouldn't trip and fall on the uneven forest floor. _Who were these men?_

The blast from another pistol shot sounded behind him, and this time Athos wasn't quite so lucky. It felt like someone had taken a hammer and slammed it high against his left shoulder, the force of it strong enough to knock him to the ground. Warm wetness immediately soaked through his shirt and began to pool under his leather doublet. With a stunned groan, Athos clutched at the deep furrow the ball had dug into the top of his shoulder, dangerously close to the junction with his neck. He grimaced as he felt his collarbone shift under pressure.

"Nice shot," a deep voice said somewhere above him. He opened eyes he had no recollection of closing to find a two dark figures looming over him.

"I meant to get him in the head." To Athos' distant surprise, the second voice sounded like it belonged to a woman.

"I can't question him if he's dead, Evie. You," the man barked, nudging Athos with his boot, "where is the other one?"

Athos didn't bother to answer. He rolled over and tried to push himself up into a sitting position, stifling a grunt of pain as he did so. If he was going to die here, he would not do so groveling in the dirt like a stray dog. He only managed to get to his elbows before he was knocked on his back again by the same booted foot.

"Stay down," the man ordered. Although a mask covered the bottom half of his face, his words were crisp and cold. "Where is the other one? We know there was another one with you." The man moved his foot so that it settled high up on his chest under his throat and he started to step down. "Tell us."

The Musketeer stared up at his attacker, his breath coming in short bursts as heavy pressure compressed his chest. The other man stared back at him, eyes narrowing when it was clear that Athos would not respond.

"Find him!" The man shouted, his eyes still on the Musketeer beneath his foot. "Don't stop searching until you do. The other one can't be far from here. When you do find him, kill him."

An image of Aramis, unconscious and utterly vulnerable, raced through Athos' mind. "He's already dead," he croaked out.

"What did you say?"

"He's dead. One of your people wounded him earlier and he didn't survive."

"Is that so? I suppose we will find out soon enough. Giroux! Get over here, and bring the rope."

When it became clear that Athos was not going to immediately meet his end at the hands of his captors, he instinctively began to struggle, kicking out with his legs and pushing against the leg pinning him down with all his remaining strength. Although the steady flow of blood from his shoulder had weakened him considerably, adrenaline kicked through him and loaned additional strength to his limbs. It was all for nothing, however, as the man standing above him quickly knelt down and grabbed him forcefully by the front of his doublet, lifting him to a half-sitting position. Athos bit back a groan at the sudden change in elevation.

"Let's make this easy on both of us, shall we?" The man said casually. He then reached back and punched Athos hard in the temple. The irony of his situation struck Athos in the split second before the black consumed him.


	2. Chapter 2

Aramis lurched back into consciousness with a gasp, back arched and hands clawing at his waist. He blindly yanked out his main gauche and swiped at the empty air above him before frantically scrambling into a defensive crouch, his blade held out ready before him. It took long seconds before his brain registered the lack of cold and snow, the lack of enemies, the lack of...anyone. He swallowed hard, eyes darting about as he tried to remember what had happened and how he'd come to be alone in the woods. Again.

As reality coalesced about him, memories of the attack on their camp and the ensuing flight into the woods began to trickle back. There should have been someone else here. He had not been by himself when the night had started. His free hand reflexively reached up to his head where he lightly ran his fingers over the rigid scar buried under his hair.

"Athos?" His call came out as a grating rasp. He coughed, trying to ease a mouth and throat that were dry as the desert. "Athos? Are you there?"

He pushed himself to his feet and was startled when his left leg buckled beneath him, refusing to support his weight. He collapsed back down into the dirt with a pained grunt, his left hand hovering over the congealed piece of cloth that was tied around his thigh. _Oh right. That happened_.

Now that his leg had his attention, Aramis was made fully aware of the bone-deep pain that pulsed from the wound, setting his nerves on fire and his teeth on edge. A wave of vertigo washed over the ragged marksman and left him feeling weightless and unmoored. Aramis allowed his dagger tumble from his white-knuckled grip and caught himself as he again reached towards the scar that decorated his aching head. _No_ , he silently commanded. _No. I will not lose myself to that again. Not now._ The marksman squeezed his eyes shut, doing his best to crumple up and lock away the horror and panic that threatened to freeze his lungs. He'd gotten much better at controlling this in the past several months, mostly due to Porthos' immense patience and kindness, but there were still times when it was impossible to resist the dark tendrils of memory that seeped through the raw cracks in his mind.

Aramis breathed deeply, compelling his racing heart to slow. _This is not Savoy. Not Savoy._ The phrase pulsed through him over and over again, and he allowed the rhythm of the words to soothe his agitation. _This is not Savoy._ His mind shied away from the question as to why he had woken to find himself wounded and alone once more, and instead focused on the things he knew to be true. _Athos is not Marsac._ Athos had not abandoned him in a forest dotted with the corpses of his murdered comrades, had not left him to his fate amidst a swirl of blood and snow. Despite the icy cold dread that threatened to freeze his bones again, he reminded himself that this was not the same. It was not. _This is not Savoy. Athos is not Marsac._

The marksman dug through a jumble of snarled memories and was almost certain that Athos had done something uncharacteristically rash in an attempt to spare Aramis' life. He didn't know the older man very well but he could easily guess that Athos was not the type of person who was prone to irresponsible behavior. Not yet, anyway.

"Athos, you fool," he croaked out loud. He now understood a little of why Porthos was always so irritated with him when he did something the big man considered reckless and impulsive. "You don't know me very well if you think you can be rid of me so easily."

If Athos had gotten himself into trouble, and Aramis was sure that he had, he needed to find the man as quickly as possible. The marksman was not entirely sure how he was going to make that happen, but Aramis had not invested all that time and effort into drawing Athos out of his nearly impenetrable solitude only to have him die now. First, however, he would need to see whether his leg would be able to support him along the way.

Aramis began to carefully untie the crusty sash that was wrapped around his aching leg, groaning quietly around clenched teeth as the cloth stuck and pulled at his tender flesh. The area around the stab was heavily bruised and edges of the wound looked unhappily brutalized under a crust of dried blood. But, as far as he could tell, it thankfully did not look inflamed or poisoned. He could see where some of his hasty stitches had failed to hold and had torn through the tissue, causing the bleeding to restart during their flight. It seemed to have stopped now, which was good

"Looks like I'll need more practice," Aramis murmured, frowning at the ugly mess. He hoped that Serge wouldn't mind if he put more stitches into the pig carcasses the old cook hauled in for the garrison mess. It was a false hope - Aramis knew that Serge would definitely mind, if his previous reactions were any indication.

With another dissatisfied grunt, Aramis pulled out his shirt, tore a long strip off the bottom and firmly re-wrapped his leg, praying that the rest of the stitches would hold. The lightheadedness that continued to plague him declared that he would be completely useless if he lost any more blood. Pushing himself back to his feet, Aramis looked about, trying to figure out where he was. The sun had risen at some point when he had been unconscious - _knocked out by a completely sneaky and unfair blow, who knew Athos had that in him?_ \- and Aramis had to admit that the terrain was unfamiliar, even in daylight. He and Athos had been traveling to Orléans to deliver a missive from the King to his brother, who was currently residing at the manor there. It was an area of France that Aramis had unfortunately not visited often.

Left with little choice, Aramis picked a direction and began to walk. He wasn't the best of trackers, but if he looked carefully, he could see signs of their passage through the woods the night before. The weak autumn sun steadily climbed in the sky as Aramis limped on as quickly as he could. His heart was urging him to race along but his injury would not allow him to do so. Each time his pace quickened it pulled at his wound and sent a sharp pulse of pain up his leg, reminding him that he couldn't help Athos if he passed out again.

Lost in the endless monotony of walking, Aramis suddenly found himself back on the main trail with his feet standing on packed dirt rather than forest debris. Huffing a small sigh of thanks, he pointed himself north towards Paris and began to trudge along determinedly, favoring his wounded leg. Unless some sort of divine inspiration descended on him with information of Athos' whereabouts, there was little he could other than to try and head back towards the garrison and ride back out with a larger contingent. The image of Marsac slowly fading into the dark, snowy woods crept at the edges of his memory, but Aramis determinedly shook them away. _I will not leave you behind, Athos. I swear it._

Despite the relative warmth of the day, Aramis found himself growing cold as he continued to walk. He felt completely dried out and a persistent headache had settled in the back of his head, squeezing his skull like a vice with every beat of his heart. When he saw a large cart stalled by the side of the road, relief washed over him and he hobbled towards it. Aramis ignored the small voice in the back of his mind warning him that strangers had proven to be unfriendly in this territory, but he did make sure that he had easy access to his arsenal.

As he got closer, he saw two men huddled around one of the small wheels which had become firmly wedged between two large rocks on the edge of the road. As Aramis called out a greeting to let the two men know that he was approaching, one of them whirled around and immediately pulled out a small but wicked looking dagger from a sheath at his waist. It was clear from the way he held it out in front of him that he had no idea how to use it as a weapon.

"Stay back!" The man that yelled at him nervously looked young, younger than Aramis himself. No more than a boy, really, while the other man looked quite old. With a mental sigh, Aramis held his hands up.

"Peace, mes amis," he said calmly. "I don't mean you any harm. Could I offer you some assistance?" He gestured at the stuck cart.

"I don't need your damn help! Leave us alone and be on your way," the younger man cried, backing away as Aramis slowly stepped forward.

"Eh, leave your pig sticker, Marcel, it ain't goin' to do you any good." The elderly man reached out and yanked the boy's arm down. He pointed a crooked finger at the pauldron strapped to Aramis' shoulder. "He's a Musketeer. No Huguenot's working for the King's own guard. Though," he continued, peering at Aramis through rheumy eyes, "he is a Spanish-looking bastard, ain't he?" The sneer on the old man's face made it clear that he did not approve.

Ignoring the jab at his heritage - he'd seen Porthos endure much worse with grace - he gave the two men a small bow, subtly bracing himself on his good leg. "You are correct, Monsieur. Aramis of the King's Musketeers, at your service." He again gestured to the cart, keeping his eyes on Marcel, who was studying him carefully in return. "I am looking to head to Paris, and was hoping that you would be willing to share a ride."

"Too good for walkin'?" The old man asked, the expression of scorn still on his face. The boy rolled his eyes as he resheathed his blade and waved Aramis over.

"My apologies," Marcel said to him quietly as Aramis walked over to the wagon, being careful not to limp. Friend or foe, it would not be wise to show these strangers that he was injured. "I did not know. Things here have been unsettled of late," the boy continued in a low voice. "I would never have threatened a Musketeer otherwise. Please forgive me."

The marksman didn't bother pointing out that Marcel hadn't even come close to threatening him. "Of course, I understand." Aramis paused. It surprised him that Huguenots would be gathering so close to Paris, the King's seat of power. He had not thought their territory had spread so far to the east. "Is there a Huguenot settlement nearby?"

Marcel shrugged. "No one knows, but the roads are no longer as safe as they used to be. And there has been...talk." The boy looked highly uncomfortable, and Aramis could imagine exactly what kind of "talk" had been spreading - most likely the seditious kind. He folded away the information for later as Marcel glanced at Aramis anxiously. "We are good Catholics, and loyal to the King."

"I have no doubt," Aramis reassured him.

"Huguenots, Catholics, English kings, French kings, it doesn't matter who rules France," the old man grumbled behind them. "They're all tyrants."

"Hush! Watch your tongue!" Marcel hissed at the old man. "Grand-père is very old and his mind is addled, Monsieur Aramis," Marcel said pleadingly. "He doesn't know what he is saying."

"My friends tell me that my hearing tends to be a bit selective," Aramis replied with a shrug. The old man's words were flirting with treason, but the marksman had more pressing things to worry about at the moment. "Will you be traveling towards the city?"

Marcel shook his head. "Paris is not our destination, but Brueillet is nearby and lies about seven or eight leagues from Paris. We'd be happy to take you there, Monsieur."

Aramis rubbed a hand over his forehead, already feeling weary at the prospect of having to hopscotch his way back to Paris. He recalled passing by a small village during his journey with Athos. It wasn't ideal, but it was one of the few spots of civilization along the endless wilderness between Paris and Orléans. He nodded at Marcel. "You have my thanks." He would have to take what he could get.

The two younger men freed the wagon with an effort that left Aramis far more drained than he would have expected. As they made to leave, the marksman climbed awkwardly onto the open cart bed and carefully settled himself there, legs stretched out before him, grateful to finally be off his feet. A surreptitious peek at his wrapped leg showed that the bandage was spotted in red, but thankfully the spots were fairly sparse and appeared to be drying quickly. As the cart lurched away, his body sagged with exhaustion and only his mounting worry for his missing friend kept him from falling asleep.

_Where are you, Athos?_

  
________________________________________

His awakening was a rude one. Someone had thrown a bucket of cold water over his head, and despite the fact that it was the exact same method Athos used to wake himself up on most mornings, he found it completely unacceptable when someone else did it to him without his explicit permission.

Blinking rapidly to clear the water from his eyes, Athos tried to wipe the liquid away from his face, only to find that his hands were unavailable. As the fog slowly lifted from his brain, he realized that he was tied to a chair. Ropes around his torso and upper arms restrained him firmly against the rough wood of the backrest. His wrists were tied together around the back of the chair while his ankles were tied to the chair legs. He tested the knots around his wrists and found them unyielding.

As his mind cleared, the swordsman also became aware of the fact that he was being watched. He cautiously lifted his pounding head to find a woman standing in front of him, both fists on her hips and a bucket by her feet. Her long brown hair was in two plaits that hung over her shoulders, but despite the youthfulness of her hairstyle and the smoothness of her plain face there was something in her flat, expressionless eyes that made her seem decades older than she likely was.

"You awake now?" She asked him. It was the same feminine voice Athos heard in the forest, the one that had explained how she had meant to shoot him in the head but had missed, hitting him in the shoulder instead. The sound of her voice set off a streak of agony that began at his neck, consumed his shoulder and chest and raced down to the tips of his fingers. Breathing slowly and carefully through his nose to control the pain, Athos slowly turned his head to squint at his left shoulder. His doublet had been removed along with his weapons, but to his surprise, it appeared as though someone had wrapped the gunshot wound in what appeared to be a relatively clean piece of cloth.

A door slammed shut and Athos started. The woman that had been there was now gone, apparently unbothered that he had not answered her question. _Not that it had needed an answer,_ Athos thought.

Now that he was no longer being scrutinized, Athos let out a small groan and began to study his surroundings. It seemed that he was being held in an old barn. He could hear horses quietly nickering in behind him and rustling the straw that was strewn about. The bright light that had momentarily illuminated the dark, cool space let him know it was no longer night time. _How long have I been out?_ And then - _Aramis!_

Athos squeezed his eyes shut and embraced the guilt that crashed through him. The feeling was almost comforting in its familiarity; the crushing weight of his remorse and self-loathing had been such a constant in his life for the past several months that it felt odd when that weight was lifted, even momentarily. The camaraderie that was persistently offered to him by the young marksman had fooled him into thinking he might one day find it possible to simply live again, but that thought had been effectively quelled by the sight of Aramis' blood and bone-white pallor. The former comte had long ago learned that God rarely had time for him and vice versa, but nevertheless he sent up a small prayer for the marksman he had left behind. Athos was aware of Aramis' deep faith, although he did not flaunt it the way other religious men did. _Perhaps God will bestow his favor on one of his more devoted sons._

The barn door opened again, drawing Athos out of his thoughts. The woman had returned, bringing a man with her. The man was tall, perhaps taller than Athos himself. He was mostly unremarkable in looks, with the same dull brown hair as the woman and square, blunted features. The only thing that stood out were his eyes, which studied Athos with keen intelligence.

"Where is the letter?"

Athos stared back at him. This was the same man that had knocked him out, that had ordered Aramis to be killed when found. He had been wearing a mask in the forest. Come to think of it, the woman had been wearing a mask as well. Neither of them was wearing one now. Athos did not have much experience with being a captive, but he was pretty certain that this was not a positive sign.

The other man crouched down before him. "There is no point in being stubborn, Monsieur. No one knows you are here."

The former comte remained silent. In the long, dark months before he had joined the Musketeers, he had often gone days, perhaps weeks, without saying a word to anyone. He would slink into a tavern and huddle down in a corner, needing nothing more than a lift of his hand and a shake of his coin purse to have bottle after bottle of wine brought to his table. Anyone who tried to engage him in any sort of conversation found themselves thoroughly ignored. The serving girls and barmen at the establishments that he visited most frequently learned to read the rhythm of his drinking habits, bringing him alcohol or food as needed as long as he kept the money flowing. It allowed Athos to mutely sink into the black depths of his grief and rage, and at that point, he'd had no intention of climbing back out. This, in comparison, would be child's play. Besides, he could not offer information he did not have.

"All I want to know is where the letter is. I know you were carrying communication between Orléans and Louis."

They had indeed delivered a letter from the King to his brother, and had been taking Gaston's response back to Paris when their journey had been interrupted. Despite Athos' noble lineage, Aramis was by far the more experienced Musketeer and so he had taken charge of the mission. He had handled the exchange of information and Athos honestly did not recall what the marksman had done with the missive.

The other man moved in closer, his voice measured and reasonable. "What does this letter matter to you? It is just a piece of paper. Is it worth your life?"  
Athos snorted. What a stupid question. Of course it was worth his life. Interfering in matters of the King was an executable offense.

"Is it worth your partner's life?" The man's eyes narrowed. "We found him, and he wasn't as dead as you said he was."

Athos' face remained blank, but his stomach dropped sickeningly. It wasn't possible, was it? Athos mentally shook himself. Of course it was possible. It wasn't as though Aramis had disappeared into thin air when Athos had hidden him. In his semi-drunken state, he'd thought he was giving the younger Musketeer the best chance to survive, but what if he'd left Aramis behind only to have him captured as well? The imploring look in the marksman's eyes as he'd demanded to stay together came back to haunt the swordsman as doubt chewed at his heart.

"I had originally thought to kill him, but then I decided against it. He was already in a bad way; without proper care he won't be for this world much longer."

Athos shook his head and clamped his lips shut. It didn't matter either way. He didn't have what they wanted and Athos suspected these people would not let him go either way. But Aramis... Did he believe this man? Aramis was one of the first Musketeers, a seasoned soldier despite his youth, and he knew his duty. Athos didn't doubt that the man would tell him to hold firm if he had been present. But Aramis was not here with him. He was wounded, hurting, perhaps dying because of Athos. It was possible he was already dead. The former comte hung his head, his thoughts blurred by blood loss and the head blow he had suffered earlier. His life had been much more straightforward when he didn't have anyone or anything to think of other than himself.

"Would you leave your friend to die alone? Tell me where the letter is, and I will let you see him."

When Athos continued to remain silent, the other man stood up. A gentle hand came to lightly rest on the swordsman's shoulder, and he nearly screamed when the fingers suddenly clenched and dug viciously into the covered wound. The pain, which had quieted to a manageable simmer, roared back to life. It set his entire chest on fire as his broken collarbone shifted under the mounting pressure. The grip slowly tightened, and as skin and muscle began to give under the mauling, Athos' vision started to white out.

"Stop, Evie. Come now."

As suddenly as it began, the fingers loosened and released him. He could feel sticky warmth soaking into the cloth that was tied around his shoulder as the angry wound continued to pulse, sending spasms of agony through his entire body. He struggled to keep himself from throwing up and was only vaguely aware of the woman stepping away from him.

"We will allow you some time to consider your situation. All I want is to know the contents of that letter. Tell us, and I will bring your friend to you. That seems like a fair trade, doesn't it?"

Athos didn't respond. His head hung low as he breathed slowly, trying to regain his composure. As a door slammed shut, the swordsman thought he could hear Anne's delighted laughter echoing at the edges of his awareness, terribly amused by the misery he'd heaped upon himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forgot to mention, un-betaed so all mistakes are mine. Apologies for anything glaring! Thanks for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

Brueillet was, as Aramis remembered, a small village. A single broad avenue was lined by several tall stone structures that were pressed up against one another in a crooked row. The white buildings glowed with a warm, golden-red hue under the setting sun, and some of the brightly painted shutters stood open to let in the brisk autumn air. The scene was charming but completely lost on the marksman as he climbed down from the back of the cart and bid farewell to Marcel and his perverse old grandfather. The earth precariously tilted around Aramis and he paused a moment to make sure his legs were steady beneath him before continuing on.

He limped tiredly towards the end of the street, making his way towards a doorway that stood under a swinging wooden sign with the word "tavern" painted on it in faded red letters. It would likely be the best place to gather information, and he could find out if he'd be able to borrow a mount from a local stable. He absently noted two horses tied to a post outside the door, patiently waiting for their riders to return. One of the horses was a large chestnut mare with two bright white socks on her hind legs, and the thought that the animal looked very much like Porthos' beloved Blanche drifted lazily through his mind. As he walked into the dimly light interior and made his way towards an empty table, his eyes darted rapidly about the room, breath quickening ever so slightly as he unconsciously scanned the area for danger.

Sitting down was considerably more difficult than he'd anticipated. His muscles had stiffened during the cart ride, and by the time he had himself settled in his chair, Aramis could feel sweat breaking out on his brow from the effort it took keep himself from screaming in pain. He bent forward with his eyes closed, placing his elbows on the rough wooden table and resting his forehead against clasped hands. _Don't give in,_ he ordered himself. _You can rest after you find Athos._

"Aramis? My God, 'Mis, is that you?"

It took a moment or two before his brain registered the sound of his own name being called. Before he could look up, two big hands grabbed him by the shoulders and lifted him up from his hard-earned seat. He suddenly found himself pressed against a broad, leather-covered chest, a pair of strong arms wrapped tightly about him. Panicking, Aramis began to struggle, trying to escape from the near-strangling grip.

"Aramis! Calm down, brother."

"Porthos?" Disbelief colored the question. It couldn't it be, but it was - there was no mistaking the deep, rumbling voice that was dearer to Aramis than just about anything else in life.

"Yeah, 'Mis. It's me. What the hell happened to you?" Porthos pushed Aramis away from him but kept a firm hold of his shoulders, inspecting the drooping young man with a frown. "You look terrible."

The corners of Aramis' lips quirked up. "It's nice to see you too, Porthos." He gave his closest friend a light pat on the ribs in greeting. "Please don't take this the wrong way, but what on earth are you doing here?"

Porthos carefully sat Aramis back down and then took empty seat on the opposite side of the table for himself. His sharp eyes continued their scrutiny of the marksman. The crease between his eyebrows clearly stated that he was displeased with Aramis for evading his question, and that he would not be allowing the matter to drop. Aramis would have squirmed under the knowing gaze if he had the energy for it.

"Bijou and Fauré came back to the garrison without their riders. Didn't take much to figure out something had gone wrong. Me and Blanchard rode out to see if we could pick up your trail."

Aramis sent up a quick prayer of thanks upon hearing that his mount had made it safely back to Paris. Aramis had met the spirited young horse shortly after the darkest moment of his life, and he now could not imagine life without her. "How was Bijou? Tell me she wasn't harmed in any way?"

"No," Porthos drawled slowly with one eyebrow lifted. "Your horse is just fine. I don't think I can say the same about her master, though."

Aramis wearily waved away Porthos' observation. "We were attacked in the middle of the night. Athos...Athos is missing." A fresh sense of urgency cut through his lethargy. "Porthos, we need to find him."

The big Musketeer leaned back in his chair with his arms crossed, a furious thundercloud darkening his expression. "Who attacked you?" The anger in his words promised unpleasant retribution.

"I don't know." Aramis rubbed a hand against his aching temples, fingers repeatedly brushing against his hidden scar. "There are rumors of Huguenots settled in this area." The marksman shrugged. "It's my best guess. Unrest follows them like a plague, and they have little love for any representative of the King." Aramis' voice made it obvious that he had little love for them in return.

Porthos nodded. He knew of Aramis' involvement in the first Protestant rebellion a few years ago, and he had seen the scars that those battles had left on the marksman's body. "The keep here says they're still stirring things up, unwilling to accept defeat," Porthos rumbled in disapproval. Treville had spared Aramis and Porthos from fighting in the most recent skirmishes against the Huguenots for obvious reasons. "Rumors say that remnants of their forces are hiding about. There's a small abandoned farmstead a few leagues from here where we might find some of them."

Aramis' eyes widened. "Is it possible that they're holding Athos there?" Aramis leaned forward, his resolve just barely propping him up. "We need to get to him, Porthos. As soon as possible."

Porthos gave him a deeply skeptical look. "We aren't going anywhere, Aramis. I don't know what it is that you're hiding, but I know you're hiding something."

Aramis' gaze slid to the side. "I'm not leaving him behind."

The other man sighed. "No one is suggesting that we should," he replied gently. "What happened? Was Athos taken? How did you two get separated?"

_I don't know._ Things were beginning to blur as fatigue started to overcome Aramis despite his best efforts to stave it off. "We were attacked in the middle of the night. I was...we didn't get away cleanly."

_I was wounded, and he abandoned me._

"We were running through the forest, and they chased us. I wanted to fight, but he...Athos didn't think I could. There were too many of them."

_Athos left me. He was trying to save my life, but he left me. There was nothing I could do to stop him._

A frigid chill began to sink into his bones and Aramis found himself shivering, as if tiny life-shattering earthquakes were rattling his limbs uncontrollably.

_He walked away from me left me to my fate. He left me for the crows. He left me with twenty dead men._

"And then what? Aramis? Where did Athos go?"

_I don't know. I don't know. I woke up and he was gone._

Aramis pushed himself up from his chair, breath coming in short pants, and he scrambled back on unsteady legs, trying to escape the icy reach of his own past.

"No Aramis, don't. Don't go there." Two strong, callused hands wrapped around firmly his arms, trying to hold him steady. It was a familiar grip, comforting and generous, offering him the strength he couldn't summon on his own. Aramis tried to use that borrowed strength to block the tidal wave of memories that crashed through his exhaustion, but it was too late.

_We were friends, brothers, and he left me alone. Alone but for the dead._

"Come back to me, 'Mis. Please." The marksman was only faintly aware of Porthos' plea, pitched low and soothing. It was drowned out by the deadly whisper of blades sliding from their sheaths and slicing into the bodies of his sleeping comrades, his friends. Black fog began to enshroud his vision. "Aramis? Come on now. You can do this."

_No. There was nothing I could do._

Aramis didn't hear Porthos curse as his legs folded underneath him, didn't feel the arms that caught him and kept him from hitting the dirty tavern floor. All he knew was that the darkness had found him, and it was finally laying claim to him.  
________________________________________

The door opened and slammed shut again as two pairs of booted feet entered the dark barn. Slender fingers grabbed Athos' hair and yanked his head up. He stared blearily at the young woman's face that was thrust into his sightline, her skin glowing with warm lantern light. Disturbed shadows gazed back at him from behind dark eyes.

"He's awake," she declared impassively. Evie let go of his hair as she stepped back, and Athos allowed his head to fall forward again. He closed his eyes, trying to keep his mind off of his continuous discomfort. Although his shoulder had stopped bleeding on its own some time ago, it now throbbed with a deep, inescapable ache. His arms and legs had begun to go numb from being held immobile for so long, and he could no longer feel his fingers.

"Have you thought about our conversation?"

Although the question was asked calmly, Athos thought he could detect a faint note of impatience. _Good._

When it was clear that no answer would be forthcoming, Athos' captor sighed. "He is calling for you, Monsieur. He doesn't understand why you don't come, why his friend would leave him to die alone."

Athos had found Thomas on the floor of his bedroom, laying in a pool of his own blood with his throat laid open. His younger brother had died alone, murdered by Athos' wife, and he had not been there to comfort Thomas in his final moments. And Anne... He hadn't been able to find the courage to witness her death, dangling on the end of a rope at the command of the man who claimed to love her. She too had died alone. It was only fitting that Athos would die here in a dirty old barn, alone and surrounded by enemies. But Aramis...

A vision of his exquisite, deceitful wife, standing with flowers in her hand and a rope around her neck was now joined by one of the young Musketeer, colorless and ghostly under the moonlight. Athos squeezed his eyes shut as he tried to banish both from his mind. He desperately needed a drink. His body was craving alcohol the way a starving man craved food.

"Monsieur. Just tell us where the letter is."

It had been his duty to condemn the love of his life, to put her to death for her crimes and lies. It was his duty to hold his tongue, regardless of whether he had information or not. It was his duty to put King and country before the life of his fellow Musketeers.

Athos was drained. He wanted nothing more than to crawl back into the corner of an anonymous tavern and to drown himself in bottle after bottle of wine. He was weary and hurting and so goddamn tired of being tied to duty.

"I want to see him," Athos grated out, the words tripping out of his mouth almost against his own will.

"Ah, he speaks." The man gave him a satisfied smile. "If you tell us what we want to know, I will allow you to see him."

"No," Athos shook his head. "I will not tell you anything until I see him. This is assuming you actually have him, and that he is not dead already."

"That will not be possible."

Athos lifted his head and looked straight into the other man's eyes. "Then I'm afraid we are at an impasse."

The other man's lips tightened in irritation as they stared at one another, each man refusing to bend to the other man's will.

A sudden scream broke the silent clash and the woman leapt forward. She heaved her arm around and slapped Athos across the face with the strength of a man twice her size. The force of the blow whipped the swordsman's head to the side as stars danced across his vision. Before he could recover, Evie slammed her fist directly down onto his injured shoulder, her face twisted into a rictus of anguish and wrath. This time, Athos could not prevent the choked cry of sheer agony that escaped him as she struck again and again.

"Tell us! Tell us what that letter said, you worthless, murderous piece of filth. Tell us!"

The man stood back and watched calmly as the woman beat Athos with a deep, unending fury. It was only when Athos' head began to sink to his chest that he intervened. He grabbed the woman by the arm and gently pulled her back.

"I think he's had enough, cousin."

Evie yanked her arm out of his grip, her chest heaving with unreleased violence. "It will never be enough," she spat fiercely. She turned on her heel and stomped out of the barn, the door slamming loudly behind her.

The man watched her go with a look of remorse and then turned back to Athos, who was still clinging to consciousness.

"Evie lived in Nègrepelisse with her family when it was attacked by your King. Her three brothers and father were killed during the siege. She fled with her mother, but her mother did not survive the shock of that day." The man knelt before Athos. "You should understand that we are not cruel people, Monsieur. But you and your kind have forced our hand."

Athos tried to respond, but found that all he could do was hang his head and gasp for air.

"Your King has already broken his promises once before. We will not wait to see if he betrays us again. We need to know what was in that letter."

The man paused. Athos remained silent, still trying to regain his equilibrium. When it was apparent that the former comte would not speak, the man continued. This time, his voice was tinged with anger. "Fine. Remember that it is your own inaction that is killing your friend. He suffers for your silence." He left then, taking the lantern with him and leaving Athos in darkness.

_If only it had been anyone but Aramis._ Images of the marksman sidling up to him during morning muster, cajoling him during guard duty and easing him through the worst of his hangovers flashed through his mind. The man was an absolute pest. Regardless of whether Athos gave him the cold shoulder or threw pointed barbs in his direction, Aramis would simply paste on that armored grin of his and carry on as if nothing had happened. Every once in a while, Athos would know that one of his shots had found a target, for the younger man would disappear for a while and Porthos would scowl at him from a distance. But Aramis would come back. He always, _always_ came back.

Despite the painful weakness flooding his body, Athos felt his will strengthen for the first time in a long while. He was not entertaining any thoughts of a rescue, but if Aramis really had been captured that meant that no one knew of their predicament, and no one would be able to help the injured marksman. He would lie, promise anything he had to, but he had to see Aramis. At the very least, he had to know if his captors held the younger Musketeer. If it so happened that they were lying and Athos was killed once he gave them what they wanted - well, then that was a risk he was willing to take.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Deux ex machina Porthos to the rescue!


	4. Chapter 4

Porthos sighed, running a tired hand over his face. He was really beginning to hate sitting bedside vigil. It was something he would never tell Aramis, but the sight of his closest friend constantly struggling to find his feet in the past year had severely worn down his own spirit. Growing up in the Court of Miracles, he'd witnessed too many people who had simply stopped fighting against the hardships in their life. After Savoy, Porthos had been terrified that Aramis, who was one of the most vibrant men he knew, would suffer the same fate despite the love and support Porthos had poured into the care of his fallen brother.

"How is he?" Blanchard, an older man that had been in the regiment almost as long as Aramis, quietly stepped into the room they had rented. He'd volunteered to accompany Porthos when the two horses had come back riderless.

"Still sleeping."

Back in the tavern, Porthos had noted the fingers that kept wandering towards the long scar that scored Aramis' scalp under his lengthening hair. It was a new tic that tended to emerge whenever his friend was distressed, and it had made the big man nervous. When the familiar look of blank, frozen anguish had crept into Aramis' eyes, Porthos' heart sank. In the past few months, it had seemed like the marksman was improving...and now here they were again.

Blanchard made a sympathetic noise. "I'm going to get the horses ready to leave. If the Huguenots are indeed stirring up trouble, we'll need to let Treville know. It will be dawn soon, so I'll ride back to Paris and get reinforcements if needed."

"No wait, don't leave yet." Porthos studied his unconscious friend with a critical eye, noting the pallor of Aramis' normally tawny skin and the purple shadows that smudged the skin under his closed eyes. After Aramis had collapsed, Porthos had been upset to find a blood-spotted bandage wrapped around Aramis' thigh, hidden by the long length of the marksman's leather doublet. He'd been absolutely livid to find a nasty, half-stitched stab wound underneath that bandage. Further inspection had also revealed a large knot on the side of Aramis' head, hidden under his unruly curls. The big Musketeer didn't know what had induced one of Aramis' episodes, but considering his poor physical condition Porthos couldn't say he was all that surprised that his brother had succumbed to one.

"What do you want me to do?" Blanchard prompted when Porthos stayed silent too long.

"Let's see when Aramis wakes up. If he's up in the next hour or so I want you to take him back with you." It was wishful thinking more than anything else - Aramis had been down for hours now, with no sign that he'd be getting back up anytime soon.

The seasoned Musketeer raised an eyebrow. "And you think he'll come willingly?"

Porthos snorted and turned towards Blanchard. "I'll make sure of it."

A dry whisper inserted itself into the conversation. "Make sure of what?"

"Aramis?" Porthos whirled back around. "Thank God. How are you feeling? Do you know where you are?" He kept his questions as quiet and gentle as possible.  
The marksman blinked slowly at him, his eyes tired but clear. "I'm fine, but I have to admit that I don't quite remember what the name of this village was."

Porthos blew a breath of relief and refrained from rolling his eyes at Aramis' self-assessment. The flashback had thankfully been a brief one. As quickly as the relief came, it was gone just as fast and indignation took its place.

"You...you complete idiot! What were you thinking?" The words burst out of Porthos, propelled by an explosion of gnawing worry.

"What have I done now?" The marksman pushed himself up to a sitting position with shaky arms, a look of genuine uncertainty on his pale face. "Porthos, what's wrong?"

"What's wrong? 'Mis, look at yourself. How can you possibly ask me that?"

Blanchard cleared his throat. Porthos had completely forgotten the other man had been standing in the room. "I'm, ah, going to get the horses saddled up. Aramis, it's good to see you awake," he said, nodding towards the marksman before quickly slipping out the door.

"He looked a bit nervous," Aramis commented as he reached for the glass of water by his bedside. He drained it rapidly and leaned back against the wall, eyes closed.

Porthos sighed. "Aramis. Do you remember what happened to you? Where is Athos?" He leaned forward towards his friend, resting his elbows on his knees and clasping his hands to keep the calm. The big man tried his best to reel in his aggravation and project an air of patience instead.

"Athos!" Aramis' eyes flew open. "He's in trouble, Porthos. Why are we just sitting here?" Aramis threw the blanket off his legs and tried to swing them off the bed only stop with a sharp pained gasp. He looked down to find that he was wearing only his bloodstained braies. He could tell that his wounded leg was freshly bandaged and had been treated with some sort of herbal poultice by the local healer.

Porthos followed Aramis' gaze. "That's why we're 'just sitting here'," he pointed out. "Tell me what happened, and I'll find Athos. You will be heading back to Paris with Blanchard." Porthos absolutely did not trust Aramis enough to leave him alone without supervision. Who knew what sort of trouble the man would get into in his state?

"What? No! Porthos, please. Let me come with you." Aramis' hands clenched tightly around the blanket as he stared at Porthos with wide, anxious eyes.

"You're in no condition to go anywhere but home, Aramis. What would you say if it was me in that bed with a hole in my leg?"

The young Musketeer looked away. "I'll be fine," he said stubbornly. "I need to find him, Porthos. I won't leave him behind."

The affinity that Aramis had seemingly developed for Athos completely baffled the big Musketeer. Aramis had once taken it upon himself to welcome all new recruits to the garrison. It was how he and the half-Spanish Musketeer had become friends, as their perceived "inferior" backgrounds had made for instant common ground. From there, they'd rapidly found kindred spirits in each other. Since the disaster at Savoy, however, Aramis had been much more wary about extending his camaraderie to the new recruits that streamed in to replace those that had been lost. That was, until Athos walked in through the garrison gates.

If Porthos was perfectly honest, he found the taciturn swordsman to be uninviting at best and rage-inducing at worst. The casual arrogance that Athos carried with him screamed "nobleman" to Porthos, which made no sense as most noblemen took comfortable positions as officers in the military rather than joining as enlisted men. It did, however, explain the scornful disregard with which Athos treated most things, including Aramis' overtures of friendship. It was infuriating to witness, but Aramis being Aramis, he had slowly drawn Athos out of his drunken isolation. Porthos had tolerated Athos' occasional company because it was what Aramis apparently wanted. But again, if he was being perfectly honest, Porthos had absolutely no idea what Aramis saw in the joyless man.

"Aramis...do you know if Athos is even still alive?" Porthos hated to ask, but it was an obvious question. The big man watched as doubt and pain broke across Aramis' face before they were wiped away by obstinate faith.

"I know he is, Porthos, and we need to find him while he remains so. I won't abandon him."

Porthos sighed. Perhaps it was wishful thinking, but Aramis was right. If there was a chance Athos was alive, they needed to find him. That left one last matter to argue over.

"You're not abandoning him, Aramis, yeah?" Porthos said. "I said I'd look for Athos. I promise you I'll do my best to find him."

The marksman shook his head resolutely. "I don't doubt you Porthos, but I can't walk away from this. I will not walk away from him."

_Like the way Marsac walked away from me_. For the umpteenth time, Porthos cursed Marsac's name to hell and desperately wished he could have just five minutes with the coward. He would have absolutely guaranteed that only one of them walked away.

"Besides, if you try to send me to Paris with Blanchard, you know that I will simply find my way back here."

Porthos narrowed his eyes at the innocent expression plastered on Aramis' ashen face. Blanchard was a good man and an excellent soldier, but if Aramis was determined to leave, the older Musketeer would not be able to stop him, short of knocking out the ailing marksman and tying him to his horse. To be fair, there were few people who would be able to keep Aramis from doing what he wanted if he had his mind set on something. And currently, he had his mind set on running himself into the ground in order to find their missing Musketeer.

_Damn it all._ Porthos huffed in frustration. "I think this is a very bad idea."

Aramis smiled brightly at him, sensing that he had won. "Duly noted. I can do this, Porthos. I promise you."

"I'll believe it when I see it," Porthos muttered sourly. Making the decision between Aramis' physical or mental well-being left a bitter taste in his mouth.

"And I know that Athos is not your favorite, so thank you, mon ami," Aramis continued, pretending that he did not hear Porthos' comment.

The big man sniffed with distaste. Aramis was still dancing around the subject of how he and Athos had gotten separated, and Porthos was growing certain that he was not going to like the answer. "I still don't know what you see in him, Aramis. He's nothing but a sour grape."

"Hmm. A big wine grape, perhaps. But he's not sour. He is suffering, I think," Aramis mused thoughtfully.

"Suffering from what? A complete lack of social skills?"

The marksman shrugged and gave him a brief grin. "That too. But there's something there, Porthos, that makes him the way he is." Aramis paused for a moment, lost in his thoughts. "It's something that I can understand," he finished quietly.

Porthos frowned. It was difficult to imagine that a man like Athos could have experienced a tragedy so great that it would leave a mark on his soul as deep as the one Savoy had left on Aramis, but he was not going to question his brother's judgment. If that's what Aramis saw, and if his attempts to befriend Athos bought him some measure of comfort, then Porthos was not going to take that away from him.

"Are we ready to leave?" The marksman had managed to sit himself on the edge of his cot, feet planted on the floor.

Porthos tossed Aramis' breeches and doublet onto the cot and pointed at the boots on the floor. "You might want to put those on first," he advised. The big Musketeer shook his head in defeat as he watched his friend carefully clothe himself, wincing silently as the movement pulled at his wound. Porthos tried to convince himself that perhaps it was better this way - he could keep an eye on Aramis and prevent him from running headlong into danger whilst alone and injured.  
Porthos helped Aramis down the stairs and out the door into the bright morning sun. Blanchard was waiting for them with three horses saddled up and ready to go.

"Are you fit to leave, Aramis?" Blanchard doubtfully eyed the pale, limping man.

"I am indeed, Blanchard, thank you for asking," the marksman said cheerfully as he could manage, slapping the older Musketeer good-naturedly on the shoulder. "Porthos and I will try and locate Athos. Godspeed on your journey back to Paris."

Blanchard glanced at Porthos. "You'll make sure of it, eh?"

The big man shrugged and lifted his hands as if to say "I tried". Blanchard shook his head, as if to say "I told you so". Aramis crossed his arms, watching the silent exchange with annoyance.

"If you two gentlemen are quite finished, then we should really be on our way. We've delayed for too long as it is." The marksman hefted himself onto the back of the mount that Blanchard had secured for him. Although his expression remained smooth, Porthos could see the pain that flared in his eyes.

_Yeah, this is not going to end well_ , he mused regretfully. The only thing he could do was keep an eye on his brother and catch him when he inevitably fell. _That I can do_.  
________________________________________

The two Musketeers bade farewell to Blanchard and rode out of Brueillet. Porthos had heard rumors of squatters that had settled in an old abandoned homestead a few leagues away, and so they headed in that direction, hoping against hope that they'd find their missing Musketeer there. They settled their horses into a steady gallop, alert for any signs of ambush on the road.

Aramis kept his eyes forward, scanning the trees around them for any signs of danger. He tried to keep his expression as steady as possible for Porthos' benefit despite the strain that riding was placing on his leg. He was well aware of the pointed glances that Porthos kept throwing at him, and Aramis was determined not to falter. _He's not in a particularly subtle mood_ , Aramis thought with a mix of fond amusement and irritation. Despite his exasperation at being so obviously monitored, he had to admit that the search for Athos was much less daunting with Porthos by his side. Then again, the big Musketeer had that effect on most things in Aramis' life.

The area surrounding the small village was sparsely settled. Most of the land was an untouched tangle of wilderness, with dense undergrowth and closely spaced clusters of trees that had begun to shed their leaves in preparation for winter. Porthos eventually led them off the main road and onto a small path where they were forced to slow down to accommodate the narrow width of the trail.

"The keeper said that there aren't many people that live around out here. He did mention that some hunters had seen some activity around one of the abandoned homesteads to the north," Porthos explained.

"What sort of activity?"

Porthos shrugged. "Don't know. It could have just been some wandering folks taking shelter for a day or two, but I doubt it. Seemed like the people out there weren't too welcoming."

Aramis nodded. It was as good a place to start as any.

The tight path they were traveling on began to widen, and Porthos, who was riding in front, brought them to a halt. A short distance ahead, the trail turned into a small glen that had clearly been cultivated at some point. A small wooden cabin, grey with age and disrepair, stood next to a small, fenced plot of land that was overgrown with weeds. A larger structure that looked like a barn stood roughly fifty yards away. Despite the obvious lack of care for the small homestead, it was clear from the smoke rising from the crumbling stone chimney that someone was occupying the place.

"How do you want to approach this?" Porthos asked, glancing at his companion.

Aramis pursed his lips. As eager as he was to rush in to see whether Athos was here, he also refused to risk Porthos' life by running blindly into an unknown situation.

"I think I'm going to go knock on the door," Aramis said.

"You're serious," Porthos replied, his brow furrowed.

"As always," Aramis responded, running his hand over his head and pushing stray curls back off his forehead. He longed for a hat to keep his hair out of his eyes, but he had lost his yet again when he and Athos had been forced to flee their camp in the initial attack. He had the devil's own luck when it came to holding onto the things. Aramis had lost count of how many hats he'd lost just in the last year alone. "We have no idea who is in there. What better way to find out?"

"And what if it's them?"

"Then I shall be sure to duck when they begin to fire. Wait here." Aramis nudged his mount forward.

Porthos shook his head as he watched his friend move towards the cabin. "Unbelievable," Porthos grumbled as he followed behind.

Aramis halted when he was close and dismounted, drawing a deep breath as he knocked on the door. He could hear Porthos' heavy boots on the ground as he hopped off his own horse and stomped up behind the marksman.

"Who is it?" A man's gruff voice called from inside. He did not sound particularly friendly.

"Aramis, of the King's Musketeers. We have some questions and was hoping you could be of some assistance."

For a long moment, there was no reply. Aramis could hear indistinct mumbling and a shuffling of feet on the other side of door. He glanced back at Porthos with eyebrows raised and the big man responded in kind. As they waited, Aramis placed a hand on one of the pistols that was holstered at his hip, confirming that it was there and ready to go. The feel of his weapons comforted him and reassured him that he would never again be caught defenseless.

After his physical wounds began to heal, there had been a period in the aftermath of Savoy during which Aramis had refused to sleep. Shadowy assassins had lurked in every dark corner, and the only way to protect himself and his brothers was to stay awake at all times. Porthos had first pleaded with him, and then threatened to tie him to his bed and dose him with sleeping draughts. Aramis' attempt at forgoing sleep for the rest of his life was cut short when he'd nearly shot a new recruit after being startled. Aramis had a reputation for rock-steady nerves even under the direst of circumstances, so it was the jumpiness more than anything that had finally forced Porthos to follow through on his threat. While the marksman had seen the error of his ways after sleeping for twenty-four hours straight, he made sure he was fully armed at all times. Porthos was now the only one in the regiment willing to take the risk of waking Aramis when necessary.

Just as Aramis lifted his hand to knock again, the door opened a crack. "What do you... _you!_ " The eyes that peered out them from the dark interior widened as they took in the marksman standing in front of the door.

It took less than a split second for Porthos to yank the Aramis out of the way before a lead ball punched its way through the rickety wooden door and flew through the space where Aramis' chest had been. The two Musketeers fell in a heap, and Aramis cried out as he landed badly on his injured leg.

"Aramis! Are you hit?" Porthos' hands frantically manhandled Aramis as they searched for a new wound even as he roughly pulled the marksman to his feet.

"I'm fine, I'm fine," Aramis grunted out with a cough. A rush of adrenaline was already beginning to numb whatever pain he felt. He pushed Porthos away as he pulled out his pistols, holding them ready to fire as they ran around the side of the cabin and crouched next to a rotting stack of barrels. The sound of angry voices shouting echoed from inside the building.

"Who was that?" Porthos hissed. He had his pistol in one hand and his schianova in the other.

"I don't know," Aramis whispered back. He peeked around the corner when he heard the door slam open.

"Beaufort! It's Musketeers!" Porthos and Aramis watched as a man ran shouting towards the barn, an arquebus in hand. Aramis frowned, briefly longing for his own weapon. The arquebus was not a firearm for commoners; it was a weapon of war and its use required skill and training. These men were not poor settlers, they were soldiers. Huguenot soldiers, if the rumors were not mistaken. Aramis' mind flashed back to the attack on their camp and the speed and skill with which he and Athos were set upon. If Athos was still alive, then there was no doubt in Aramis' mind that these people had him.

"I'm going for the barn. Cover me," Aramis ordered, clapping Porthos on the shoulder. "And be careful." He took off before Porthos could protest, sending up a quick prayer for his friend. He ran for the ramshackle barn, taking aim at the man in front of him as he did so. He sighted down the barrel and pulled the trigger. As always, his shot found its target and the man crumbled to the ground just as he reached the barn, dead from a severed spine. Running past the body, Aramis rammed his shoulder into the doors and burst through them. He staggered to a stop, raising his other, unused pistol in readiness.

"Athos?"


	5. Chapter 5

"I will tell you what you want to know. But I want to see him."

Athos lifted his heavy head and blinked slowly. The two figures standing before him merged into one as his blurred vision finally resolved. His body was starting to give in to the abuse it had suffered and only his desire to see Aramis, to discover whether the younger man was still alive, kept him from dropping away into the beckoning darkness once more.

He had been rudely woken again by Evie and her damn bucket. Cold water dripped down from his hair and beard and trickled uncomfortably down the back of his neck. The woman appeared to have smothered her outward fury for the time being as she unabashedly stared at Athos with only a shimmer of hungry anger in her eyes. The unbearable throbbing in his shoulder only seemed to get more intense under her attention.

"Tell me what was in the letter, and you may." The other man leaned forward with an eagerness that was barely restrained.

Athos coughed. "The communication was simply about a fête that the King had planned to celebrate France's recent military victories. His Majesty wanted to ensure his brother received an invitation." The swordsman hid a grimace as he spoke. As lies went, it was not particularly convincing.

Apparently his captor agreed, as his eyes narrowed with incredulity. "And why would Louis send his precious Musketeers for such a menial task?"

Athos weakly shrugged his good shoulder. "Who am I to question the wisdom of the King?"

"You lie!" The man pushed Evie to the side and grabbed Athos by the shirt, roughly pulling him against the ropes that bound his body to the chair. Athos bit back a groan as the motion jarred his chest. "Why hide such useless information?"

Athos lifted an eyebrow as coolly as he could manage, forcing his eyes to focus directly on the face in front of him. "It was none of your business."

A look of cold rage passed over the man's face - _I see it runs in the family_ , Athos mused - but before he could act on it, a commotion and shout from outside caught his attention.

"Beaufort! It's Musketeers!"

Genuine shock flickered through Athos at the cry. _Musketeers? But how?_ Something didn't quite make sense, but he was too addled to figure it out. He was also surprised to find that profound relief chased through him at the thought of a potential rescue. Perhaps he was not so resigned to his fate as he had thought.

The man - Beaufort, apparently - swore and released him immediately. He turned to Evie and barked, "Gag him and help me drag him back." Facing Athos again, Beaufort balled up a fist and struck the swordsman's across the face. Athos' consciousness immediately fled, his head loosely lolling forward as it rebounded from the force of the blow. Evie ripped a strip of cloth from the bottom of her simple brown skirt and stuffed it into Athos' lax mouth, tightly tying off the ends behind his head. The two of them dragged their captive away from the doors and further back into one of the open stalls where the shadows were deeper.

"Stay here with him and keep him quiet if he wakes up," Beaufort ordered. "I'll be back. Don't let anyone know you're here."

Evie nodded at him and slid out a knife from a sheath that was strapped to the small of her back. Before Beaufort could leave, however, a gunshot sounded from just outside the doors. A terrible, familiar fear rose up Evie's throat as the barn doors swung open, revealing a tall, leather-clad figure that steadily leveled a gun in their direction.

"Athos?"  
________________________________________

The shift from bright daylight to the dark interior of the barn momentarily blinded Aramis, but his finely-honed instincts blared and he quickly shifted his weight back. He just barely dodged the swinging blade that attempted to separate his head from his shoulders. Trying to recover his balance while bracing himself on his bad leg, Aramis pulled his own rapier and brought it up just in time to parry as his attacker rushed at him again. His foe, an average looking man with above-average skill with his sword, gave him a look of disbelief as his eyes widened.

" _You!_ " He snarled at the marksman.

Aramis frowned as he shoved the man away from him, taking a moment to reset his stance and to trade his pistol for his main gauche. He did not want to waste his final shot at such close range. "Why does everyone here seem so surprised to see me?"

"You're supposed to be dead!"

"Ah. Well, that explains it," Aramis replied as the two men warily circled each other. "I can't say I'm sorry to disappoint."

"Can't trust anyone to do anything properly," Beaufort groused to himself as he lunged in once more.

The proficiency of the man's bladework confirmed Aramis' suspicion that these people were trained soldiers. The marksman found himself pushed back as he blocked the deadly onslaught. He could feel fatigue weighing down his body from behind an insulating wall of adrenaline, slowing his reflexes by a fraction. It wasn't much, but it was enough for his enemy's sword to sneak through his guard and hack at his sword arm. His pauldron deflected the blow, but the force of it was great enough to suddenly deaden his arm and leave what Aramis guessed would be a deep bruise. He managed to keep a hold of his blade but retreated a few steps, willing the feeling back into his fingers. He needed to turn the tide of this fight, and quickly. Gritting his teeth, Aramis dug deep into his reserves as he forced himself to stand his ground.

"Where's Athos?" Aramis demanded. He launched his own attack, putting everything he had into it. While Aramis normally enjoyed the fluid dance of fencing, he was forced to keep his movement as economical as possible to conserve what little energy he had left.

"He's dead," Beaufort spat. "The Musketeer died crying and screaming, just as you'd expect of a cowardly Catholic dog."

_He's lying!_ While a weight dropped into Aramis' stomach at the man's cruel words, his fear for Athos gave him the strength he needed to push forward. He fought with renewed vigor and was rewarded when his enemy staggered. Taking advantage of the tiny opening, Aramis pressed his attack, kicking out at his opponent's knee and then sweeping his rapier around to knock the other man's blade out of his hand. With his adversary disarmed, Aramis quickly followed up with his left hand, slamming his main gauche deep in the other man's belly and tearing it back out. Beaufort folded to his knees, staring down at his bloody shirt in disbelief before dropping like an unstrung marionette. Aramis dropped the stained dagger and stood still for a moment with his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath and slow his racing heart.

"No!" The shriek came out of nowhere and Aramis whirled around, rapier up and pistol out again as he squinted into the dim barn. His eyes picked out two figures hidden in the back of one of the empty stalls, one seated and one standing behind. As he slowly walked forward, what he saw made his heart squeeze with dread.

"Athos!" His fellow Musketeer - his _friend_ \- was sitting tied firmly to a chair, his head harshly pulled back and neck exposed. A woman was standing behind him with one hand tangled in Athos' hair and the other holding a small but sharp blade to his throat. It was clear that Athos was unconscious, and that he had not been treated kindly during his time with these people. Aramis' eyes narrowed as they took in the heavily bruised, swollen face as well as the bloody rag that was tied around his shoulder.

"Stay where you are," the woman threatened, tugging back on Athos' hair and pressing the edge of her knife into the swordsman's skin. "He is dead if you take another step!"

The marksman halted, but kept his pistol trained on the woman. Anger and relief warred within him; Athos was thankfully still alive. "It seems he's halfway there already," Aramis growled. "What have you done to him?"

"Nothing he didn't deserve." The woman's voice shook. A glint of terror and grief in her eyes made Aramis wary.

"What on earth has he done to deserve this?"

"Not just him, all of you. I'd send every last one of you to hell if I could," Evie snarled. There was something in the way that she held herself that set the marksman's alarms ringing.

Aramis' eyes narrowed. "Move away from him, and I will spare your life." He shifted the barrel of his pistol just a fraction to the left, his breath quieting as he prepared his shot. He needed to get to Athos.

Evie laughed. "Mercy? From a King's man?" Her grip on the knife handle shifted. "I don't want your mercy."

Aramis pulled the trigger just as the woman made to pull her blade across Athos' throat. The ball hit the arm that held the knife and pushed her away from Athos, the small weapon clattering harmlessly to the ground. Evie stumbled back with a small scream of pain, immediately grabbing at the bloody gash in her arm. As she staggered, she lost her balance and fell with a twist, the side of her head bouncing forcefully off the edge of a feeding trough built into the back of the stall. Aramis heard the unmistakable crack of bones breaking as she landed. Hobbling towards the unmoving body, it only took a brief touch of his fingers to her neck to confirm that she was no longer alive. "Forgive me," he whispered as he hurriedly closed her staring, empty eyes. Committing violence against women turned his stomach, but his need to get to Athos was paramount.

Praying that there were no more attackers lurking in the dark, Aramis scrambled back around the chair and knelt in front of his unconscious friend.

Aramis quickly untied the gag that was stuffed into the other man's mouth and then cautiously took Athos' face in his hands, taking care not to press too hard on the colorful bruises that marred the swordsman's skin. His eyes skittered about his friend's lax form, searching out any other obvious wounds.

"Athos? Athos, can you hear me?" Aramis was disappointed but not surprised when there was no response. "I need you to wake up." He gently brushed back the disheveled locks of hair that had fallen over Athos' forehead. "Please, mon ami. Wake up. Can you do that for me?"

Aramis' entreaties were rewarded with a soft groan that came from the bound Musketeer. "That's it, Athos. Come back to me now." He smiled broadly when blue eyes finally opened and blinked dazedly at him.

"Hello there," Aramis greeted.

"Aramis." His name was nothing more than a puff of air. Athos swallowed hard. "You're still alive," he whispered. There was a vulnerability in his normally stoic expression that struck Aramis to the core.

"I am. Reports of my death seem to have been greatly exaggerated," Aramis replied softly with a quirk of his eyebrows. He deftly sliced through the heavy ropes that bound the other man and caught hold of the swordsman as he began to slide off the chair once he was cut free. "We are going to get you out of here, mon ami. I am sorry it took so long for us to find you."

"You came back." Athos turned and stared blearily at the marksman as Aramis maneuvered his way around the chair.

Aramis paused. There was a touch of wonder in Athos' slurred words that stirred something inside of him and made the back of his eyes burn. "Of course I did, Athos. I will always come back for my brothers."

Aramis threw the swordsman's good arm over his own shoulders and wrapped his arm around Athos' waist. He sucked in a deep breath as he hoisted the older man into a standing position, bracing Athos firmly when it was clear that his numb limbs were not going to function properly. The rush of false energy that had fueled Aramis thus far was starting to fade, and the pain that had licked at the edges of his mind was starting to intensify. _Just a little farther_ , he ordered himself firmly. _Just get Athos to safety. Do not fail now._

As the two men stumbled towards the doors, Aramis desperately hoped that Porthos was unharmed and that he had managed to deal with any other enemy soldiers that had been hiding on the homestead. He didn't hear any yelling or the clanging of weapons from outside and decided to take that as a good sign. They were only a few yards away from freedom when Aramis' ears picked up on the the sound of heavy boots pounding on the packed dirt floor. A cry of rage was his last warning before a body slammed into the two Musketeers from behind.

Aramis couldn't contain the scream of pain that erupted from his lips as both he and Athos crashed down on his wounded leg. Bright white spots sparked across his vision as he gasped for breath. There was little he could do as hands grabbed him by the front of his leathers and lifted him off the ground.

"You will not leave here with him!" Beaufort's livid countenance invaded Aramis' view, his face white and his teeth stained red. With an effort that was powered by dying rage, he shoved the struggling Musketeer away from him. The marksman landed heavily on his side and he lay still for a moment, his lungs frozen with agony. Despite his fading sight and nearly depleted strength, Aramis tried to force his body to obey his will, to get to his feet and to fight back. He only got as far as his knees before Beaufort launched a vicious kick at his midsection. The blow caught him fully in the ribs, and Aramis choked out a gasp as he felt his bones buckle under the brutal attack.

"He is mine!" Another kick, and this time, the marksman couldn't hold on. He fell helplessly into the waiting arms of oblivion, cursing his own weakness and begging forgiveness from yet another friend he had failed to save.  
________________________________________

Although Athos had hoped against hope that Aramis was alive, it was still a shock to have the marksman's pale face wavering in front of him, beaming and eyes bright as he cut Athos free from his bonds. The former comte absently marveled at Aramis' ability to offer a reassuring smile even under less-than-ideal circumstances.

"You came back." Athos wanted to reach up and touch the marksman, to feel flesh and bone under his fingers, but he couldn't get his nerveless arms to cooperate. Instead, he kept his eyes trained on the younger man as he went around to the side and slid his arms around Athos' ribs to help him to his feet. It wouldn't do for Aramis to disappear while Athos was not looking.

"Of course I did, Athos. I will always come back for my brothers." Aramis sounded so serenely assured about it, as if he were referring to the fact that the sky was blue or that grass was green. _Brothers._ The word echoed in Athos' muddled mind. He still could not understand why or how he'd come under the protective cover of this man's friendship and what he'd done to deserve it, but for the first time since they met, he was immensely grateful for it.

Aramis hoisted Athos back to his feet and the swordsman tried to carry some of his own weight, but it was a token effort at best. Athos squeezed his eyes shut as the pounding in his head joined the near-intolerable throb of his shoulder. His legs felt stiff and unsteady after being held still for so long, and every step they took disrupted the steady ache with a spike of sharp pain. The two men clumsily stumbled towards the barn doors that floated half-open in front of Athos like a desert mirage, so tempting and yet seeming so unreachable. A part of him wondered if this was some sort of hallucinatory dream. It seemed unreal to him that he was free, that he would escape his captivity with his life, and that Aramis had, against what seemed like impossible odds, come back to find him.

The dream came to a cruel end when a heavy weight smashed into them from behind. Athos instantly recognized Beaufort's voice, and he unfortunately also recognized Aramis' agonized cry as they fell awkwardly together in a tangle of limbs. Athos immediately rolled over to try and relieve whatever pain he might be causing the younger man, but as soon as he did so, Aramis was lifted in the air by a mad and bloody Beaufort.

"You will not leave here with him!" Bloody spittle flew from the Huguenot's mouth as he screamed. It was clear the man had been mortally wounded, but his body had just not quite caught up to that fact. Athos could only watch in despair as Aramis was tossed back to the ground like a rag doll.

"Stop. _Stop it._ " The words came out as no more than a whisper. Athos reached for some reservoir of strength that he wasn't sure he possessed and pushed his hurt and exhaustion aside. He had to _move_. An unexpected burst of fury rose up in him as Beaufort kicked Aramis once, twice. Athos silently urged the marksman to get up, to run for safety, but it was obvious that he would not be getting up again anytime soon.

"Don't!" Athos finally found his voice as Beaufort drew his leg back again, ready to unleash once more on the unconscious Musketeer. Fear for Aramis drove Athos to his feet, and he launched himself towards the Huguenot. He tackled Beaufort to the ground just before he could strike Aramis again.

Brawling was not something that Athos was particularly good at. It was a fighting style that was considered common and therefore beneath the nobility. Nonetheless, since joining the Musketeers, he'd been required to learn hand-to-hand combat and had been frequently forced to spar with Porthos, who was easily the best brawler in the regiment. While those rounds had always ended with Athos sprawled on his back and nursing fresh bruises, he had managed to pick up several useful moves from the big man, who had proven to be a surprisingly effective instructor.

Stifling a moan as the impact unhappily jarred his mangled shoulder, Athos got to his knees and hooked his good arm around the other man's throat. He pulled as hard as he could, hoping to cut off Beaufort's air supply and at the very least, knock the man unconscious. Although the Huguenot was badly wounded, Athos was also weak from a lack of food and water and the abuse he'd been subjected to. The swordsman couldn't hold on as Beaufort thrashed wildly, reaching up to repeatedly rake his fingers across Athos' wounded shoulder. As soon as the Musketeer released him, Beaufort rolled away. The dying man slowly raised himself to his knees with a groan, one hand pressed firmly against the bleeding hole in his belly. Scrambling back towards Aramis' still form, Athos reached down, slid the other man's rapier from its scabbard and pushed himself to his feet, locking his trembling knees. He stood over the prone marksman, shakily holding the blade out in front of him, determined to protect Aramis from any further harm. Athos and Beaufort stared at each other wordlessly, each unwilling to risk the first move.  
Their silent staring contest was interrupted when a large figure came barrelling through the entryway. Athos spun on his heel to face the new threat while trying to keep his eye on Beaufort.

"Aramis?" Porthos strode in to the barn, a vision of strength and supreme confidence. His doublet was decorated with a spray of red, but from the way he moved Athos doubted the blood was his.

Porthos abruptly came to a halt as he took in the tableau before him. In less than a heartbeat, his eyes darted first to Beaufort, then darkened as they flicked towards Athos and his protective stance over the marksman. Without a word, he smoothly pulled his pistol from his waist and fired at Beaufort. The ball hit the man in the chest and Beaufort slumped back, finally dead.

Porthos gave a grunt of satisfaction before re-holstering his weapon and running towards the stunned swordsman. "Athos?"

"Your timing is impeccable," Athos acknowledged wearily, nodding at the big man. He supposed he should have been surprised to see Porthos, but he was not. Wherever Aramis was, the dark Musketeer could always be found close by.

Athos allowed Aramis' sword to drop to the ground, and he fell to his knees, being careful not to land on the man lying at his feet. It was over. Athos thought he should feel relieved, but all he felt was coldness washing over him as he began to shake. His final thoughts before he sank into darkness were for Aramis, and the hope that he would be able to thank the marksman for coming for him.


	6. Chapter 6

As Athos collapsed at his feet, Porthos found himself utterly alone in the ringing silence, surrounded by three still bodies. It was only the thought that two of those bodies were not yet dead that made Porthos shake himself out of his frozen state. It took a heartbeat and a deep breath before he could summon the courage to kneel down and check on the two unconscious Musketeers. The pulses that his hesitant fingers found beating in both throats felt like a precious victory. That was where the good feelings ended, however. Examining them further, Porthos frowned at the bloody trench under the rag tied to Athos' shoulder and cursed at the wide scarlet patch that stained Aramis' breeches. "Damn fool," Porthos muttered. "Got more blood on your clothes than inside of you where it belongs."

He carefully carried the two of them into the cabin and set about seeing to their wounds as best as he could. Aramis came to with a sudden jerk while Porthos was checking his leg again, muttering in disgust over the seeping wound.

"'Mis? Are you with me?" Porthos leaned over his brother, looking down with relief into the tired, pained brown eyes that remained heavily lidded.

"Porthos?" Aramis' voice was a soft, breathless rasp, but it was music to his ears.

"Yeah, I'm right here. And yes, I'm fine. Not even a scratch." Porthos knew that it would be first question Aramis would ask.

"Athos? Where..." The marksman's head rolled to the side and he made a small distressed sound when he saw the swordsman lying on a makeshift bed across the small room from his own. He tried to push himself up to a sitting position before Porthos could stop him and fell back again when he found he lacked the strength to do so.

"What do you think you're doing?" The gentle hand Porthos lay on Aramis' shoulder to hold him down belied the gruffness of his tone.

"I need...I need to see," the marksman panted, trying in vain to put out the fire consuming his chest. "Athos. How bad?"

Porthos glanced over his shoulder at the other Musketeer. "Well..."

"Tell me." As drained as Aramis was, there was still a steely note in his voice that demanded an honest answer.

The big man sighed. "His shoulder looks pretty bad, and judging by the bruises on his face he's probably been hit in the head more than once." Porthos frowned and muttered, "I hope he's got a hard head."

"Were there any other wounds? Anything hidden under his clothing?"

"No. Not that I found."

"Thank God for small favors," Aramis breathed. The marksman looked expectantly at Porthos. "Help me up."

Porthos crossed his arms and frowned sternly down at Aramis. "Haven't we had this discussion already? Absolutely not, and don't ask me again."

Aramis lifted his arms. "Please?"

"No! I'll take care of Athos as soon as I'm done with your leg. Which, by the way, bled everywhere."

Aramis shook his head, waving away Porthos' comment. "I won't know what can be done for his wounds unless I examine them myself. Please." Porthos turned away from the deep concern in Aramis' eyes. He already knew that if he denied his friend's request, the marksman would drag himself across the room regardless. The same tenacity that had seen Aramis through terrible adversity also drove Porthos to a frustrated distraction at times. The big Musketeer silently cursed his friend's stubbornness even while knowing that it was one of the reasons Aramis was still alive.

Lips pressed tightly together in disapproval, Porthos quickly re-wrapped Aramis' leg and helped him up and over to where Athos lay, still dead to the world. Though it was no more than a few steps, Porthos could feel Aramis shaking with exertion and pain by the time he settled himself on a rickety chair by the other bed. Whatever color the marksman managed to recover had leached right back out of his face.

With trembling fingers, Aramis peeled back the clean square of cloth Porthos had laid over the swordsman's exposed shoulder. He found that the big man had already taken time to carefully wash the wound site, as there was no dried blood or debris crusted onto the pale skin. There was a pool of dark purple puddling around Athos' collarbone, indicating that it was likely broken. That, however, was the least of Aramis' worries. The open wound that scored the swordsman's shoulder looked appalling. It was clear that it had been deliberately traumatized, as Aramis could easily see the deep, fingertip-shaped bruises in the surrounding flesh. The edges of the deep furrow looked terribly angry and inflamed from the abuse, but by some miracle, Aramis did not see or smell anything to indicate that the wound had putrified.

"We will have to treat this with a poultice and allow it to heal on its own. The wound is not fit for needlework," Aramis muttered to himself. "Porthos," he turned to the other man, who was hovering over them anxiously, "you did well to clean this." Aramis spared a small, grateful smile for his brother. "Could you please gather some millefeuille, if you can? They will have clusters of small yellow blooms. The season is a bit late but I thought I some plants clinging to life when we rode in."

"Of course you'd notice flowers blooming as we're riding into potential danger," Porthos groused as he stepped outside. "Stay put, Aramis."

As soon as Porthos left, Aramis leaned towards the unconscious swordsman. "I'm so sorry, Athos. We should have found you sooner," he said quietly, resting his palm lightly on Athos' chest and taking comfort in its rhythmic rise and fall. "We are here for you now, and we will take good care of you. I promise."

Although Aramis had intended on ignoring Porthos' command and moving about to prepare the items required to make a poultice with the healing plant, the marksman found that he simply did not have the energy to move. Every breath he took was chased by a crackle of pain despite the snug bindings Porthos had tied around his ribs. The deep puncture in his thigh throbbed incessantly, and even the thought of placing his weight on the injured leg made him feel nauseous. So instead, Aramis rested his head on the edge of the narrow cot, hand still in place over Athos' steadily beating heart, and he allowed himself to drift.

Porthos returned a short while later, a bunch of wilted blossoms clutched in his fist. He shook them at Aramis, who was jolted out of his wearied daze. "Is this what you wanted?"

The marksman blinked sleepily at him as he slowly sat up."Yes, those are perfect."

"What do I do with them?"

"Ah...you'll want to mash the plants as finely as you can. Make a paste. Put it..." Aramis' voice trailed off.

"And then what? Aramis? Oh no you don't," Porthos rushed over to catch his friend's sagging form before he could fall off his perch. He gave Aramis a gentle shake, mindful of his broken ribs, and was thankful when his friend sighed and shifted in his arms.

"You do test my patience, brother," Porthos murmured, cradling the sleeping man. "Let's get you back into bed."

Porthos did his best to follow Aramis' very brief instructions and made an uncertain face at the murky green slop he was left with. "I hope this is what it's supposed to look like," he said to himself as he walked over to Athos with a bowl of the plant mush he had made. He slowly applied the poultice to the unconscious man's wounds and with a shrug, deftly rubbed some along his collarbone as well. "Can't hurt," he mused.

He placed the cloth back over Athos' shoulder, not wanting to irritate the unhappy injury by tying it off. "When you wake up, you and I are going to have a little chat," Porthos promised softly. "I believe we have some things to discuss."

The big Musketeer smeared the rest of the paste on Aramis' leg wound, wincing when the sleeping marksman twitched at the contact. "Sorry," he apologized needlessly.

When he was done, Porthos threw himself onto the floor between the two other men, leaning against the wall with his legs extended out front of him. With a groan, he stretched out the stiff muscles that the earlier skirmish had left him with. When he had joined the Musketeers a few years ago, he hadn't anticipated that he'd spend so much of his time watching and worrying over his comrades, hoping for quick recoveries after painful injuries. He had expected adventure and excitement, both of which he'd found. He had hoped for some prestige and respectability, which he'd also gained, albeit more slowly. What he'd not expected was the deep friendship and brotherly love that would be offered to him by some of his fellow Musketeers, and Aramis in particular. Glancing at Athos, he wondered if such a relationship could be had with the reserved swordsman. Aramis certainly thought it was possible. Then again, the man could likely charm a cobblestone into being his dearest friend.

"I suppose we'll find out," Porthos whispered softly.  
________________________________________

The spell of unseasonably warm weather that had graced France had come to an end, and a brisk autumn chill had quickly settled in its place. The nights were beginning to become quite cool, and it was only the knowledge that Aramis had a strong aversion to the cold and the desire to make something warm to eat that convinced Porthos to leave the other two Musketeers again to collect firewood. He came quietly into the cabin, arms full of dry logs, to find Athos sitting up in his makeshift bed, eyeing Aramis with his customary unreadable stare. The gaze shifted to him as he set the wood down on the large pile he had already gathered.

"How are you doing?" Porthos walked over to Athos' side, sparing a quick glance at the sleeping marksman.

"I've been better," Athos replied.

The big man snorted in agreement. "I bet you have. You and Aramis both."

Athos dipped his head. "How is he?"

Porthos shrugged. "He's alive." It wasn't much, but it was all Porthos could ask for. "He was worried about you."

Athos nodded absently as he delicately prodded his shoulder. It had clearly been treated with something as it was no longer shrieking at him quite as loudly as it had been before. His head was another matter.

Porthos sat heavily in the chair he'd set between the two cots that Athos and Aramis were occupying. He crossed his arms over his chest and stared steadily at Athos.

"What happened?" Porthos asked, his voice flat.

"What do you mean?"

Porthos' eyes narrowed. "The two of you rode out together. When I ran into Aramis, he was alone."

The swordsman swallowed heavily. He turned his gaze towards the sleeping Musketeer, who was propped up on a pile of saddlebags and blankets to ease his breathing. His pale face was smooth and relaxed in healing sleep, making him look more like a boy than a full-grown man who had already seen more warfare than Porthos and Athos combined. Aramis wore his years of soldiering experience with such ease that it was almost startling to remember how young he still was.

"He was wounded during the attack on our camp. I was supposed to be keeping watch. I wasn't paying attention and Aramis paid the price."

"You were drinking." It wasn't a question. The smell of wine very frequently clung to Athos at morning muster even if the man looked sober enough. Porthos pursed his lips in stern disapproval, but he made no further comment. Every man had his vices.

"Yes." At least the comte didn't try to deny it. "It was my fault."

Porthos frowned, a deep crease forming between his eyebrows. "Go on."

"We were pursued through the woods. It was clear that Aramis wasn't going to be able to continue much longer, so we split up."

Athos' story was similar to what Aramis had told him earlier, but it didn't make any sense to Porthos. "And Aramis agreed to this?"

"No. I forced him to accept my plan."

"And exactly how did you do that?"

"I knocked him out and hid him while I drew off our attackers."

Porthos' face darkened with outrage. "You...you deliberately left him alone when you knew he was hurt?" Porthos clenched his hands to keep himself from grabbing Athos and shaking the man.

Athos glanced up at him, and Porthos was shocked to see deep regret and guilt swimming in the blue eyes. "I didn't want to, but what else could I have done? I did what I had to!" Athos' voice was tight with quiet torment. Porthos had the distinct feeling that Athos was referring to more than just his desertion of Aramis.

Regardless, the big Musketeer blew out his breath, trying to settle his anger. The rational part of him knew that Aramis had likely been in bad shape, and that Athos had done the best he could under desperate circumstances. The larger part of him, however, the part that had watched Aramis struggle with his abandonment at Savoy...that part of him wanted to throttle the swordsman.

Porthos leaned forward in his seat. "You shouldn't have left him behind," he said severely.

"We were outnumbered. He wouldn't have survived if we had to fight," Athos maintained quietly.

"You didn't have to fight. You could have hidden together." Porthos hated hiding, hated running, but he would have if it meant that he could keep his brother safe. "That's what it means for us, to be Musketeer. We have each other's backs no matter what. Understand?"

Athos nodded. Aramis had come back for him, had brought help when Athos had no expectations of rescue. He fixed his eyes on the the marksman again. "I wanted to give him the best chance I could. I just...I couldn't let him die because of my mistake."

"Yeah, well." Porthos couldn't argue with the sentiment. He leaned back in his seat again and rubbed a hand over his short curls. He wanted to stay upset, to blame Athos for what he had done, but found that he couldn't. Besides, there was no denying that Athos had suffered badly for his decisions. The savaged shoulder wound that Porthos had treated made his stomach turn.

Porthos didn't know if Athos' ordeal had weakened the barriers that constantly shielded the taciturn swordsman, but there was remorse in his voice and clear respect in the gaze he kept trained on Aramis. It made Porthos wonder whether he should revisit his opinion of the man. Dour, drunken nobleman or not, perhaps Aramis was right about this one. The image of a pale and bloody Athos standing resolutely over the marksman's unmoving body was one that the big Musketeer was sure would haunt his nightmares for quite some time.

"I think you'll find that Aramis is hard to kill. He's scrawny, but he's tougher than he looks." Porthos gave Athos a small smile. "Same could be said about you," he added archly.

Athos raised an unimpressed eyebrow. "I am not scrawny."

"Yeah, of course not," Porthos huffed in quiet amusement. "They were Huguenots, the people that captured you? What did they want?"

Athos lifted his good shoulder. "Information. I assume that they wanted to know whether the letter we carried to Orléans was about a potential treaty with the Protestants."

"And was it?"

"I don't know. Aramis carried the letter, not me."

Porthos grunted. He had found a sealed envelope tucked into one of the hidden pockets that lined the inside of the marksman's doublet. Porthos hated politics. All it did was get good men killed for little reason other than petty squabbling and offended egos. He stood up and reached for some of the wood he brought in. Night would fall soon, and he wanted to make sure the cabin stayed warm. "I'm going to try and make something to eat. Get some rest," Porthos ordered Athos. "You still look awful."

Athos nodded as he settled himself back. Simple conversation had drained him more than he would have expected. Before he could nod off, he addressed Porthos again.

"Was Aramis at Savoy?"

Porthos' hands stilled from their task of lighting the fire. "Yes," he replied warily.

"What happened to him there?"

Porthos looked over his shoulder from where he crouched in front of the crumbing hearth. "Nothing good," the big man muttered. "But it's not my story to tell. And it's not one Aramis enjoys telling."

Athos nodded sleepily. He understood perfectly well.

"Aramis thinks that you have something in your past as well," Porthos continued quietly.

The former comte hummed noncommittally. He wasn't surprised that Aramis would suspect that he had his own dark history. _It is also nothing good_ , Athos thought before falling back asleep, _and my story is not one I am eager to tell_.  
________________________________________

Blanchard arrived with a small contingent of Musketeers early in the afternoon the next day. Finding that the fighting was already over, they instead made preparations to return to Paris. Despite Porthos' loud objections, Aramis had insisted that he was well enough to ride back to the garrison rather than waiting for a cart to be prepared.

"It's only a half-day ride back," Aramis argued. Athos thought the marksman would have been more convincing if he hadn't looked like a light breeze would knock him over. "I'll be fine."

Porthos seemed like he might explode, so Athos interceded. "It is half a day when you're fit and healthy. It will be longer with broken ribs. Why suffer unnecessarily?"

Aramis flashed a look of betrayal at the swordsman. "I've ridden with broken ribs before," he asserted. "I refuse to be carried back to Paris like an invalid. It's not befitting of a Musketeer." Besides, he'd already had enough of that in the previous months.

"Except an invalid is exactly what you are," Athos responded evenly. Porthos gave him a nod of thanks.

"Me? I suggest that you take a look at yourself in a mirror, Athos," Aramis said peevishly, an indignant look on his face. It was clear he did not appreciate having Athos and Porthos teaming up against him.

"As there are no mirrors in the vicinity, I will have to decline," Athos said, unruffled by Aramis' fit of temper. "Just take the cart, Aramis."

"No," the marksman refused stubbornly. "I will be riding back on Bijou." Blanchard had brought the horse with him, and while Aramis had been delighted to see her, Porthos wished now that Blanchard had just left the animal back in Paris.

Athos sighed. "I will take the cart with you, then. Will that appease your vanity?"

"It's not _vanity!_ " Aramis sputtered."Porthos!" The offended man looked to the big Musketeer for support, but Athos didn't know why the marksman bothered. Not when it was obvious that Porthos appreciated his suggestion.

"Great idea, Athos, seeing as you both still look like hell," Porthos said, throwing his hands up in exasperation.

Blanchard had borrowed a cart from one of the townspeople in Breuillet and Porthos lined the inside with blankets, trying to make it more comfortable. Aramis glared as he limped by, but just the effort of climbing into the cart bed left him ashen and panting with pain. As he settled back against the sides, he leaned his head back and closed his eyes, trying to calm the burning in his ribs.

Athos climbed in next to him, maneuvering himself with his free hand. His injured shoulder had been carefully wrapped in a sling by Aramis while they had been waiting. Porthos watched them both with worried eyes from his perch on top of Blanche. "Alright?" he asked gruffly.

"Yes. Just wonderful," Aramis gasped.

As the cart lurched forward, Athos lightly tapped the marksman's leg. "Breathe, Aramis. Slowly."

"I'm trying," Aramis replied. He gave Athos a brief concerned look, pain still glimmering in his eyes. "How are you?"

"Better." The poultice that had been placed on his wound had helped immensely. It was no longer setting his arm on fire, and just the small alleviation of pain made him feel more human. Porthos had mentioned that Aramis had taken a strong interest in healing arts and doctoring in the past few months. It was clear from the results that he had learned well.

"Good." Aramis' breathing was beginning to slow as he relaxed.

"Aramis..." Athos felt like he had to say something, but he wasn't sure what, or how. These conversations were far from his forté and as a general rule he tried to avoid them completely. However, his recent exchange with Porthos convinced him that the events of the past few days required some sort of acknowledgement.

"What is it?"

"I'm sorry." The apology tumbled out as a nearly imperceptible whisper.

"For what?" Aramis turned wide, earnest eyes towards the other man.

Athos took a deep breath. "I'm sorry that I left you. I shouldn't have," he said bluntly.

The young Musketeer nodded. "You did what you thought you had to do."

"I did. I will not apologize for trying to save your life, but perhaps we could have found another way. A better way," Athos conceded. "I have been recently informed with no uncertainty that Musketeers must have each other's backs, no matter what," he continued, a wry curl at the corners of his lips.

Aramis huffed out a small chuckle. "Porthos has a way of making his point quite forcefully, doesn't he?"

"Indeed. Regardless, it is a point that I cannot argue with."

Aramis' eyes were incredibly warm as they held Athos'. "I'm glad you think so."

The swordsman nodded. "And thank you. Thank you for coming for me."

Aramis gave him a pleased grin and gently squeezed his arm. "No thanks necessary, mon ami. It is what we do for each other, for our brothers. We are brothers, non?"

Athos smiled back. "Yes, I believe we are," he replied.

**Author's Note:**

> X-posted at ff.net  
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
